The Demon Lawyer of Fleet Street
by justplainrii
Summary: Exiled for 15 years, Godot returns home to London, and with the help of a certain pie shop owner, he resolves to become a lawyer again and exact his revenge against the man who ruined his life. Games 1-3 spoilers, inspired by a Kink Meme request. AU.


Disclaimer--  
This fic is based on the story/play/musical/movie Sweeney Todd. To some extent, the story does not belong to me. However, I've added some of my own twists into it. So, enjoy it for what it is.

I do not own Phoenix Wright, or Sweeney Todd. If I did, I'd be very lucky.

Thank you very much!

-///-

A dense fog, white as a cloud and twice as thick, had settled over London Harbor; a choking fog, covering all and anything on either land, sea, or in-between. A London fog.

It was not a good day to be sailing, nor a good day to be traveling at all, for that matter. All and any ships that wished to dock that day would be in for a decidedly difficult time, the mooring lanterns no more visible than candles behind lanterns of frosted glass.

The air was cold, the world a portrait of grays and grays.

Miles Edgeworth was happy to be home.

He missed every single detail of London, his cold, wonderful, modern home. He had been away for over three years, by his estimation, but he wasn't sure; time passed strangely on the sea, after all. He had left a mere boy of barely 21, and he was now 24, and quite more mature than his peers, thank you very much.

His journey had begun on the recommendation of his step-father, who stated that he was to go and see the world. "You are far too naïve, Miles," he had said, disapprovingly, with his arms crossed. "Some experience abroad should shape you up and knock your foolish ideals out of you."

Thus, he found himself on a ship to America, where he spent a good many months enjoying the scenery and architecture, and learning a great many things. However, his time there was short, for he was soon on his way to the faraway cities of Brazil, Argentina, Peru, each sight more splendid and, in his opinion, "mind-broadening," than the last.

He was planning on sailing to China, and from then perhaps to India; however, his plans were quite interrupted on a particularly scorching sunny day while sailing in the waters east of Australia.

It was there that they found the man.

He was found, hanging on for dear life to the remains of a sad little ship, which had wrecked on a reef with no survivors found anywhere but him. They had brought him on the ship, and he did nothing but sleep for many days, before finally becoming well enough to walk about on his own and speak; although he did very little of either.

He was found to be a quiet, stern-faced and serious man, with skin tanned a deep brown and a violent shock of white running from his forehead to the tip of his hair. A thin scar ran across his face and over his nose; a scar which, when asked, he would speak nothing of.

In truth, the man spoke of next to nothing. He had no name but "Godot," although he spoke with an English accent, denying that he was French and asking only to be brought to London, and not Toulon or some other port city.

Edgeworth was fascinated by him.

He would follow the mysterious Godot all around the ship, when he wasn't holed up in his room, making small talk and staring, together, at the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean. The almost cheerful call of Edgeworth calling out, "Mr. Godot, hello!" became a common sound indeed on the ship.

Normally, he wouldn't have been behaving in this manner; indeed, Edgeworth hadn't bothered to get to know any of the other passengers on the ship, for he took them to be rather foul and gossiping folk, much more preferring the company of the academics he had met and spoken with on his travels.

Besides, if there was anything that Edgeworth detested, it was secrets, and the other men on the ship had nothing to hide. Every night, at dinner, he would hear them chattering on and on and on about their lives and their more provocative pursuits, with far more of the latter being heard. If they had any secrets, Edgeworth was certain that they would not interest him at all.

Godot, however, was different. There was something in his quietness, and a grace in his movements, in how his hands carefully handled a fork, a pen, that showed he was not a man of crassness and raucous laughter. He was a veritable puzzle-box of secrets just waiting to be unearthed. Edgeworth was confident that he would hear them within only a few days.

His confidence waned with the days, as he spoke one-sidedly with the man, revealing everything about himself, but learning nothing about his strange companion. Godot's lips remained sealed, no matter what sort of persuasive ploy Edgeworth might try on him.

Then, one day, Godot made a request of him, fixing his mud-brown eyes intensely on his young inquisitor: "Ask me not of my past," he said, lowly, softly. "I do not wish to discuss it."

Edgeworth, stunned into silence, instantly aborted his pursuit.

Godot, once more, said very little for the remainder of the voyage, and Edgeworth honored his promise, not once asking Godot about his background, nor anything else, for that matter.

Therefore, it surprised him immensely when, upon sighing and remarking, "Ah, there's no place like London," there came a low, almost unfamiliar voice in reply.

"No, there certainly is no place like London," said Godot.

Edgeworth gulped as the man, with an ice-cold expression, joined him at the side of the ship. "Mr. Godot, sir?" he said, attempting not to sound frightened.

Godot continued to stare, with an almost chilling intensity, into the fog that concealed the city. He spoke again. "You're young. Life has been kind to you," he said. His eyes addressed Edgeworth, with an expression resembling something similar to hate or sadness. "You will learn."

Edgeworth gulped again and, not wanting to seem impolite, gave an almost nod-like bow as he nervously left. "Sir."

If there was one thing he could say about Godot, it was that he had a talent for getting his point across in as few words as possible, for better or for worse. Edgeworth spent the remainder of his time in his cabin, not wanting to anger the man further.

In a short amount of passing time, the ship was moored without mishap, and its passengers were emptied of it, Godot and Edgeworth included. It had been a good long while since Edgeworth had stood on dry land, and his feet welcomed the solid ground; however, he had little time to savor the return, for a voice came from behind, stopping him before he could take so much as a step forward.

"Miles."

He turned around and realized, with a start, that it was Godot calling out to him. A rough sailor's kit was slung over his shoulder, and his face was stern, cold as ever.

Astonishingly enough, he stepped forward, and placed a brown hand on Edgeworth's shoulder. "So, it is here that we go our separate ways. Farewell; I shall never forget you as the man who saved my life."

A strange sort of smile touched his lips, as if he couldn't remember how to smile. Edgeworth could not remember hearing Godot ever speak so much. He noticed his speech was tinged with some exotic accent; perhaps Spanish, with its long vowels and rounded consonants? He couldn't tell, exactly.

He remembered then, almost with embarrassment, that he really was the one responsible for Godot being alive and in London at that moment. It was he that had spotted his wretched brown form in the water, shouting, "Look! There's a man in the water!"

"It was nothing at all, Mr. Godot, sir," Edgeworth replied, his eyes downcast. "I'd be a poor Christian indeed to not say anything, when I saw you there."

"...ha!" Godot laughed a single, sharp, bitter laugh. "There would have been many Christians who'd have left me there to the mercy of the sea. Not one of them would have lost any sleep over it, either..."

"Ah..." said Edgeworth, as Godot glanced towards the ship again, with that same, unreadable expression of either sadness, or anger, or perhaps even both, if that was possible.

A thin, high, unhealthy wail from some dingy nearby wall rose into the air, unsettling Edgeworth even more. "Alms, alms, for a miserable woman... Alms..."

From out of the shadows, with the tap-tap of a wooden cane, there came a woman, seemingly wrapped in filthy rags, with seer, white hair floating out of what appeared to be some sort of hat. She was a pitiful sight, indeed. Edgeworth reached into his pocket, and tossed a penny on the ground, near her feet. _Poor thing,_ he thought.

Her hands groped along the ground almost immediately, until they found the penny, wrapping their fingers and palms all around it. She smiled, somewhat. "Oh, thank you, sir, God bless you," she said, her head tilted in Edgeworth's general direction, as if she could not tell where he stood. "Thank you."

Edgeworth said nothing, but gave the beggar woman a small nod of recognition. To his horror, she found his sleeve and was holding onto it, very tenaciously. "Is there anything I can do for you, dearie? Surely there's a penny's worth of pleasure I could bring you..."

Edgeworth shook his head, wrenching his sleeve away from the woman. He could not see her eyes, but he figured she looked rather disheartened. She shoved the penny into her sleeve, moving forward with her cane.

She ran into Godot, and her hands reached upward, imploringly. "Alms, for a pitiful woman...?" she said.

"I have nothing to give you. Leave me in peace," Godot replied, lowly.

The woman stood there for a while, retracting her hands as she seemed to think, turning something about in her head. She spoke: "Don't I know you, mister...?" she said softly.

Godot didn't seem to hear her, and he shook his leg at her, as if she were some mongrel dog, wandering about his leg. "Must you glare at me, woman? Off with you!"

"Oh, but surely there's something I can do for you, sir, just a little something..." she continued, reaching for his face.

Godot slapped her, and slapped her hard. "Leave me in peace! Off with you! Off!"

The beggar woman stood there in shock, before gathering up her hands in her rags, bowing her head, and beginning to shuffle away. "Terribly sorry, sir, there must've been some mistake..." she mumbled, to the tap-tap of her cane. "Terribly sorry, I thought you were..."

She disappeared into the shadows, the thin whine of her cry floating into the London fog. "Alms, alms..."

"...pardon me, Mr. Godot, sir, but... was that necessary?" Edgeworth said, after a good while had passed, thoroughly intimidated. "She wasn't anything to fear; just a half-crazed beggar woman. London's _full_ of them."

He glanced sideways, all too familiar with said beggar women, who he used to see on the streets as a young boy, telling him what a "nice lad," he was, asking him for a "pretty penny, little lad, and we'll tell you a nice little story." Those were not fond memories.

Godot's eyes were dull, yet angry, as if he were annoyed with something he couldn't quite identify. "Do pardon me, then," he said, lowly. "My mind is far from easy today..."

"Whyever so?"

"There are ghosts, everywhere, in these streets," he replied, glancing at the thick, dark buildings that stretched along the streets beyond the docks. "They fill me with uneasiness and chill my heart."

"But, Mr. Godot," Edgeworth said, furrowing his brow, confused, "there are no such things as ghosts."

Godot stared at him, his head tilted slightly, his mouth downturned. "Do forgive me for my foolishness, then," he said flatly.

"There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Godot," Edgeworth replied, hoping dearly that he wasn't being offensive.

Godot was silent for a while, continuing to stare, before turning on his heel and beginning down the road. "Farewell," he said again.

Edgeworth stepped forward, before he could stop himself. "Wait, Mr. Godot!" He winced as Godot stopped, slowly turned around, and stared almost condescendingly at him. He spoke not a word. "Before we part..."

"Yes?"

He gulped. "Mr. Godot, I have honored my promise not to ask you of your past. What brought you onto that shipwreck is your affair and yours alone, I understand, but..." His eyes closed tightly as he tried to find the words, feeling incredibly out-of-place. "I have, truly, come to see you as somewhat of a friend, during our voyage home."

Godot's expression did not change as Edgeworth stopped speaking. Feeling immensely foolish, he continued. "If... if you should happen to fall into any trouble, here in London, or if you need help, or money-"

"No," Godot said, sharply, and Edgeworth's stomach sank, greatly regretting even bothering to speak. "London is a giant, black pit on the face of the Earth; '_should_' I fall into any trouble? Ha!" His sharp, bitter laugh made Edgeworth wince. "Trouble is everywhere, but nobody bothers to help with it at all."

"That's... not true," Edgeworth said, hesitantly. "Mr. Godot, I would help you in any instance, I honestly would."

Godot's eyes, for a glimmer of a moment, became warm. But, every quickly, they were cold as stone, as seawater once more. "Your optimism is remarkable, Miles," he said, dryly.

"I don't see myself as particularly optimistic," Edgeworth replied, quietly. He held one of his arms in embarrassment.

"Not everyone is so fortunate, to have help offered like this," Godot continued, looking up, as if recalling a memory. "I had a dear friend, once, who was very much like you. He was a fool, naïve. A lawyer."

Edgeworth's ears pricked up immediately; he was studying to become a lawyer, one day. "Oh?"

"His wife was... beautiful," Godot said wistfully, gazing into the thick clouds that layered the sky. "He loved her more than life itself. One of the loveliest people I have ever met; a virtuous woman, and intelligent." He stared at the cobblestones, coldly. "I suppose that was all the worse for her, though..."

"Why, Mr. Godot?" asked Edgeworth.

Godot glanced at him, as if it were obvious what the answer was. "She was a great beauty, yes; a beauty who was pursued by many men. And that fool... he thought that he could keep her from everyone else..."

"I see..." said Edgeworth, uncomfortably.

Godot continued. "There was a foul man who loved her, and he... did something terrible to that friend of mine, in order to have her."

Edgeworth gulped. "Did he have your friend... killed...?"

Godot glanced at him, coldly. "He's as good as dead now, I suppose," he replied. He looked to the sky again. "And his wife, well..."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

Godot was silent for a good long while. "...it was many years ago," he finally replied. "I doubt if anyone would know." He frowned, deeply, a troubled expression on his face. "I must ask you to leave me now, Miles," he said. "There is something I must do while I am here, somewhere I must go. Alone." Stiffly, he turned around to begin on his way again.

"Ah, but... surely we'll meet again someday, I suppose?" Edgeworth added, something resembling a hopeful tone in his voice.

Godot turned around, that same half-remembered smile on his face. "If you wish to find me, then you would do best to seek me on Fleet Street," he said.

_Fleet Street,_ thought Edgeworth, and nodded solemnly. "Very well, then," he said. He mustered a smile. "Well, so long?" He offered a hand for Godot to shake.

Godot sniffed, as if he were laughing through his nose, and shook Edgeworth's hand. His grip was firm, almost surprisingly so.

Satisfied, Edgeworth gathered his bag and began on his way, leaving Godot standing in the filthy air.

Godot very quickly left; for indeed, there was something he had to do, and it was something he most certainly had to do alone, and with haste.

He walked with a terse, march-like step, through the streets. His eyes glowed with a fire-like anger, and he muttered to himself, as if to keep himself sane. "London is cruel, London is foul," he said, over and over. "London is cruel, London is foul."

And, as he traveled, he saw nothing to contradict this. The place was a realm of dirty wood and glass, and wet cobblestones, slick with rain and refuse. He walked, unnoticed by the despicable citizens of the despicable city, who went on with their horrid little lives, not a worry outside of their own well-being in their heads.

_Vermin,_ thought Godot. _Pigs._

In passing time, he came upon Fleet Street, and walked with a measured, deliberate step. He knew what he was looking for.

And then, he found it. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at what he saw: A small shop, painted in a color that probably used to be white, with dark letters above the doors.

"Mrs. Armstrong's Meat Pies," it read.

He took a deep breath in, adjusted the kit on his back, and began to march towards it, noting with disdain a sign to the side of the door that was written in a horrible imitation of French, possibly to attract customers with a splash of "culture." The French were no more civilized than the English, anyways...

And so, he entered the shop, readying his mind.

Godot had a great many questions to ask, questions which he was intent to have answered, no matter who currently lived in this wretched little shop on Fleet Street.


End file.
